An Inexpensive Soul
by Morello
Summary: Sebastian learns something about reapers that's too tempting to ignore, but can he lure Grell into accepting his terms? Sebastian/Grell, Grell/Will
1. On Such a Night as This

**Ah, Licorice, look what happened! Never mention pretty Gothic manga to me so close to Hallowe'en - I've come over all moonlight and roses. **

**I'm new to this wonderful, surreal world, so please forgive any glaring errors. I googled like a thing possessed, but couldn't find out whether or not reapers have souls. If they don't, please consider this AU. **

**_An Inexpensive Soul_**

Sometimes at night, while Ciel is sleeping, Sebastian likes to wander the grounds of Phantomhive Manor alone. In the white moonlight the mansion is a beautiful ghost of its daytime self. Sebastian loves (if a demon can love) the ways in which the night plays with solidity – turning stone to molten silver, making sharp-edged shadows more real than the objects that cast them. Tonight is the best kind of night – high streamers of cloud, gossamer thin, too insubstantial to do more than trail teasingly across the face of the full moon - a wild wind whipping the branches of the trees into a frenzied dance and scattering the water droplets from the fountain at the very doors of the manor like an offering: handfuls of diamonds – broken pearl necklaces.

Sebastian stands on the crenellated parapet above the main doors of the Phantomhive ancestral home and looks out beyond the foaming fountain to the moon-washed lawns where the shadows cast by the restless limbs of the trees writhe like the tormented souls he hunts so assiduously. His eyes gleam, following the subtle supple motion of a black cat that flows, liquid, over the lawn and leaps with admirable and butler-like precision onto the narrow balustrade that runs along the top of the wall of the kitchen garden. Sebastian smiles, and the cat turns to stare at him – moon-reflecting eyes impassive, acknowledging no superior.

There is someone else watching him, Sebastian knows – out there, beyond the topiaried yews and the ha-ha – someone whose breath catches looking at him despite having no need to breath. Even with his demonic vision Sebastian can see no more colour in darkness and moonlight than an ordinary mortal could – even than the _cat_ can, turned to a statue upon its precarious perch. The world is painted silver, black, white, grey – but Sebastian can sense something else – the scent of blood on the wind, or the silent vibration of a colour so bright that night is unable to dim it.

Leaping from the parapet, lithe as the cat and landing with more grace, Sebastian stalks across the lawn. Something shifts in the darkness – frightened. Hunger surges in Sebastian – a feeling of power that is a dark joy. This creature is immortal like him, as powerful as him in many ways – and yet it fears him because it has human weaknesses – desire – something it claims is _love_. How utterly foolish. How contemptible. In daylight Sebastian would eject it from the grounds without a thought – with a kick and a whispered curse (because one must _always_ remain polite in front of the young master). It would flee, cowed not by Sebastian's strength, but by the force of its own yearning. Pitiful – if a demon could feel pity.

And yet, on nights like this, Sebastian finds himself weary of his role. He's one hell of a butler – yes. But his master is endlessly demanding, and the winning of a soul is a tedious process at times. Contractual obligations… so much bureaucracy – and the struggle of subjugating the internal demon that occasionally roars to be free. It's almost depressing, his enforced submission to this soul-hunger. It's a weakness nearly as binding as love seems to be.

Sometimes Sebastian needs a new challenge.

He stops in the dead centre of the lawn, and bows towards the darkness where the presence lurks.

"Grell," he says, and although he doesn't raise his voice it carries clear above the wind's moans. "I know you're skulking there. You need not fear me tonight." Sebastian straightens and holds out one white-gloved hand. "My Lady, will you dance?"

The reaper appears, walking slowly out of the darkness. His hair is so vividly, vibrantly red that it glows visibly even in the night – the one patch of colour in a monochrome world. Grell is unarmed, it seems, and lacks his usual exuberance. The coat he took from Lady Red's corpse is done up to the neck, and he holds his arms across his narrow chest. He stops well short of Sebastian and his open hand. Behind the glasses, Grell's eyes are narrowed, suspicious.

"This is a trick," he says. "What is it, Bassy? You want me close so you can kick me harder?"

"Perhaps that's it," Sebastian says, cruel as Grell will always allow him to be. "Or perhaps I really want to dance. Why don't you come here and find out?"

"It would be worth it though," Grell muses softly, almost to himself. "All right then." His shark-sharp grin flashes, catching moonlight. "What's life without a little risk, eh, Bassy? It's death that makes life so worth living after all – wouldn't you agree?"

Sebastian's smile is smoother than Grell's but just as deadly. "What would you know about it, Reaper?" he asks, taking Grell in a secure ballroom hold. "You're as deathless as I am."

"Ah," Grell replies, moving easily into the steps of a waltz, "but I see it every day in the records of the lives I take. They fight for life so hard, these wretched mortals, that it must be worth something, or where would be the pleasure in ending it?… I don't know. I feel it in my own soul sometimes – the sadness that the play is over. It's worse with the young ones – cut off mid-act."

"_Your_ soul?" Sebastian scoffs, spinning Grell across the lawn. The skirts of the coat spread wide like a floating ball gown, and whatever music it is that Grell hears in his head above the sobbing wind it's perfectly in time with Sebastian's imagined violins. "Reapers have no souls!"

Grell comes to an abrupt halt, the wild wind tugging at his long hair, making of it banners, streamers, ribbons. Whatever else the reaper is, tonight he's beautiful. "You're misinformed, Bassy my love," Grell says, smiling. "_Demons_ don't have souls – reapers do."

"The soul of a reaper?" Sebastian whispers, and suddenly the hunger is very strong. "I would do – a great deal – for a soul like that."

Grell dances out of Sebastian's grip, light as the young debutante he often wishes himself to be. He almost flies across the lawn, jumps, lands on the edge of the fountain pool. "What reaper would accept _that_ contract?" Grell asks, striking a dramatic pose, the water of the fountain a cascading curtain behind him. "_We _know what happens at the end, don't forget." One hand over his heart Grell mimes a swoon – the very picture of a fainting heroine from a melodrama. "I would give you anything else, Bassy. You know I would. But do not ask me _that_, my darling…"

Sebastian holds out his hand again, and Grell takes it, stepping down from the rim of the pool, haughty as a princess. Sebastian sweeps Grell into his arms and says softly, "I would do _anything_…"

Grell stills, and his eyes are as wide and frightened as Sebastian has ever seen them. "Don't…" he whispers. "You think they don't train us to resist demonic temptation?"

"I would love you…"

Sebastian by moonlight is Grell's image of perfection – all light and shade, hair and eyes dark as a moonless midnight. "You would melt any girl's heart," Grell sighs. "But you're a demon – you can't love."

Sebastian's mouth is tantalisingly close to Grell's as he says, "Who knows whether that's always the case? You would have an advantage no one else has ever had – I would be contractually obliged to _try_."

"I couldn't. William would kill me!"

Sebastian's tone is suddenly bitterly sarcastic as he moves away, leaving Grell shivering. "Oh well. I thought you were the one who thought life was worth nothing without the risk of death. But there's nothing to you but empty lines. You're a bad script, poorly acted. _You_ don't even believe the things you say."

Sebastian moves away, back across the shadow-mottled lawn, his body secretly tensed in anticipation of the word before Grell speaks it.

"Wait."

Sebastian smiles his demon's smile into the darkness, then turns, assuming a mask of indifference. "Yes?"

"You would be contractually bound to try to fall in love with me?"

"Yes."

"And in the meantime you would behave as if you _were_ in love with me?"

"I would."

"You will – give me children?"

Sebastian barely pauses, noting the tense change. "If there is any way to achieve such a thing in Heaven or Hell, I will."

"But – you're bound already – to that brat Earl."

Sebastian waves his hand. "Details. We can discuss all that later. All I need for now is your consent, my Lady."

Grell knows that his answer should be no, of course. Who ever entered into a contract with the devil without the secret belief that he would be able to find a loophole at the last? But the night is bright with moonlight, and a high wind, and scudding, broken cloud, and Sebastian is everything that Grell has ever wanted or dreamed of. Grell laughs, and summons her female guise – a rose-red gown to match her blood-red hair, trimmed with black lace, and a corsage of trailing crimson roses, their thorns sharp as cats' claws. She looks up into Sebastian's eyes and laughs again. "Yes, demon," Grell says, made brave by love and longing. "Love me – love me truly - and my soul is yours."

Sebastian kisses Grell, his eyes closed, disguising his triumph. Such a small price for so rare a soul - merely the promise to _try_ to love. Demons cannot love. Grell will be signing his soul away for less than most mortals do - certainly for much less than Earl Ciel Phantomhive has done.

Tonight has been a perfect night. Sebastian can't help but feel a little smug. It has to be admitted – he really is one hell of a demon.

**TBC?**


	2. Signed and Sealed

Argh - something really weird has happened to the formatting in Doc Manager. No idea whether this will publish or not. Anyhow - thank you very much to those kind people who read, reviewed and favourited this story. I really appreciate it. I will attempt to put up chapter two now!

An Inexpensive Soul Chapter Two

Signed and Sealed

The devil, as they say, is in the detail. Last night, in that other world made negative by moonlight, everything seemed beautifully simple. A promise given, sealed with a kiss, and the rest blown away on the wind. But today has dawned calm and clear – Finny has already swept drifts of leaves from the paths of the parterre and removed the scattered debris of a wild night from the lawns. Order has been restored to Phantomhive Manor before Master Ciel has so much as poked his aristocratic nose over the edge of his white silk counterpane, and Sebastian, setting out the green Davenport tea set this morning, is thinking about contracts and clauses, and the somewhat dubious legality of attempting to take on two clients at the same time. It should be possible, he thinks, given Grell's fascination with him. The Reaper will simply have to learn to be flexible. Sebastian's schedule will continue to be dictated by Master Ciel until that contract is fulfilled. Anyway – Grell has work of his own to do. It's not as though he'll be able to show up and cause trouble whenever he –

"Did you miss me, Bassy?" a horribly familiar voice asks behind him. He turns to find Grell, back to his old, flamboyant self, leaning on his customised scythe as gracefully as though the mechanical monstrosity were a gentleman's walking stick, and grinning like a – well, Sebastian is reluctant to think 'demon' – but there's certainly something hellish in his devil-may-care smile, with its superfluity of pointed, gleaming teeth.

"No, Grell, not for a moment," Sebastian replies honestly, turning back to the ornate teacup he's polishing. The pattern is an elaborate floral design – green and gold borders, delicate pink wild roses. Grell pouts at Sebastian's back, picks up another cup from the kitchen table and throws it into the air, catching it in his left hand. "Pretty," he says, "but it would look better in red – deep crimson, or rose madder…"

"Put it down, Grell. What are you doing here?"

"What do you think? I came to see my demon lover, of course! Or have you thought better of our agreement in the harsh light of day? Your greeting – or lack of it – was hardly in line with our bargain, after all."

Sebastinan turns to face Grell, his expression mild, but his eyes glittering with a suggestion of red light that is not a reflection of Grell's coat or hair. "You can't expect me to behave according to 'our bargain' until the contract is signed and sealed. I have work to do. Go away. I'll talk to you this evening, once the young master is asleep. I don't want to see you here until then. I hope I've made myself clear."

"Oh – perfectly. But I'm not leaving without a kiss."

Sebastian sighs, but Grell is looking up at him from beneath those ridiculously long eyelashes, and he supposes it's the easiest way to get rid of him.

"_One_ kiss," Sebastian warns.

"Only one?" Grell presses close to Sebastian, and murmurs, "Then I'd better make it last!" Sebastian finds himself pushed back against the table, cups and saucers rattling as Grell seizes his face between his hands and kisses him hard for such a long time that any mortal would have fainted from lack of oxygen. When Grell finally releases him, Sebastian merely raises an eyebrow and comments, "Well I hope you're satisfied. Now get out from under my feet. Don't you have a job to go to?"

"Oh – I'm not _nearly_ satisfied, darling," Grell smiles. "But that will do to be getting on with." He sighs with deliberate exaggeration. "Yes – I suppose you're right – I'd better get to work. But don't worry – I'll be back soon!" Grell winks, and is gone. Sebastian straightens his waistcoat and tries not to acknowledge that being kissed by Grell before breakfast is more pleasant than he would have expected. Quite – stimulating, in fact. And talking of stimulants, there is still the tea to be made, and it's almost time to wake Earl Phantomhive.

Half way along the corridor, silver tea tray balanced easily on one hand, Sebastian stops abruptly when he realises that he's forgotten to warm the pot. _The_ cardinal sin of proper tea making – and one he's never committed before.

Sebastian returns to the kitchen immediately, rinsing out the teapot, drawing fresh water, and setting the kettle on the range. He frowns, disturbed by his lapse. Perhaps he'd better rethink his bargain with the irritating Reaper after all, if one kiss is enough to render him so uncharacteristically distracted. What kind of a butler would he be if he allowed himself to fall short in a task so fundamental to his calling?

And yet – the soul of a Reaper is a prize worth almost any sacrifice. And this particular Reaper… Sebastian has to admit that, along with his more aggravating qualities, Grell does posses a certain frenetic charm, which occasionally provides a not unpleasing counterpoint to the sombre disposition of his young master.

Sebastian makes the tea – English breakfast, since the wildness of the preceding night seems to have left him in the mood for something plain and down-to-earth. The warm-toast aroma is familiar – this is a no-nonsense tea that is the exact opposite of anything he would choose to serve to Grell. Not that he has any business to be considering Grell's preferences – not yet. Of course, if the contract should be finalised, then making Grell happy will become the focus of Sebastian's existence. Except that he is already bound to Ciel. Really he should not allow the red Reaper to shift that focus. Grell has already become a disturbing flicker in his peripheral vision – a nagging hunger that is difficult to ignore. Grell is prismatic – he distorts Sebastian's clarity, dragging attention to himself – insisting on being noticed.

What kind of a butler would Sebastian be, if he couldn't juggle two contracts at once?

But Grell doesn't want him to be a butler. Still, that shouldn't pose a difficulty. Sebastian has taken the Incubus form before now, and he's perfectly capable of being one hell of a lover. _Perfectly_ capable. Say what you like about demons, _this_ demon has, at least, the virtue of taking a pride in his work. The ideal tea for any occasion – a parfait to die for – a night you'll never forget - it's all one to Sebastian. His performances are always flawless, and the fee is always the same. It's best to keep things simple, after all.

Sebastian pauses outside Ciel Phamtomhive's door, and checks his pocket watch. One minute left – he has made up the time Grell lost him. He frowns slightly, considering. Grell is not nearly as simple as he sometimes pretends to be – Sebastian knows that. It could be dangerous to underestimate him. For all his flamboyant excess he is still a reaper, and reapers are not beings to take lightly. Grell has committed crimes that should have seen him destroyed, and yet he received no worse punishment than demotion and the temporary confiscation of his death scythe. Someone clearly believes that Grell has a purpose, and is prepared to bend the rules for him. Someone who takes such a close interest might pose a problem to Sebastian's plans if the contract were to be anything less than watertight.

Sebastian puts Grell out of his mind. For now his contract is with Master Ciel, and Master Ciel must be his sole concern. He smiles at the pun, before rearranging his features into a suitably impassive expression and knocking on the door.

Ciel is not in the best of moods this morning. He opens his blue eye and regards Sebastian. His look is far from benevolent – but that's hardly a surprise. "Sebastian," he states flatly, emphasising the fact that the butler's presence is an inconvenient and irritating necessity.

"Good morning, my young master. What would you like for breakfast today? I have prepared kedgeree, or we have pain au chocolat, or the usual selection of toast and scones."

"I'll have a scone," Ciel replies, as he usually does.

Never mind – Finny is fond of pain au chocolat, and Bardroy will finish off the kedgeree. All the same, Sebastian feels an uncharacteristic flash of annoyance at the waste of his skilled labour. At least Grell, he supposes, will appreciate his dedication and attention to detail. Turning to draw the heavy velvet curtains, Sebastian allows himself a small frown, as his eyes burn red. It suddenly seems like a long time until the evening.

The grandfather clock in the long gallery has struck ten by the time Ceil Phantomhive deigns to retire. Sebastian closes the door to his young master's bedroom softly behind him, and blows out the candle he carries with an exhalation that is partly a sigh of relief. There are no cases to be investigated at present, and no business engagements tomorrow, it being Sunday. The servants, for once, have negotiated an entire day without causing havoc. The rest of the night is Sebastian's.

This evening is last night's opposite – calm and still. The only similarity is the moonlight, but tonight it is constant, the sky cloudless. Sebastian looks up at the stars, and feels a moment's almost-peace. But, of course, demons can never know real peace, and now there is anticipation, sharp as the edges of the motionless shadows, bringing a more acute awareness of the hunger that is always present.

Will Grell come? Yes. Sebastian has no doubt about that. Grell's hunger is as keen as his own, and Grell is unaccustomed to resisting temptation, whatever he may have said about training. As long as that powerful shinigami – William T. Spears – has no idea of Grell's incipient fall, all will be well. He is the only one who appears to be capable of exercising any kind of restraint upon Grell, which is precisely why Sebastian feels confident that Grell will have kept silent about their encounter of the previous night.

Ah. Here comes Grell now, walking purposefully across the lawn, head high. He has made up his mind; Sebastian sees that at once. But, unfortunately, there are still details to be discussed.

Grell runs to Sebastian with a cry of "Sebby, _darling_!" and flings himself at the demon with such force that an ordinary mortal would have been knocked off his feet. Sebastian's first instinct is to recoil, but, naturally, he can't do that now, so he sweeps the Reaper up into his arms and greets him with the kind of kiss that has lost many a mortal maiden her heart along with her soul, in days gone by.

"You came to me!" Sebastian says, as though he has been tormented by doubt on the matter. "Does this mean our bargain stands?"

"Yes!" exclaims Grell, his tone almost petulant. "Yes, yes, yes. I told you as much this morning. Really, Bassy, you're going to have to listen if you want to be as good a husband as you are a butler."

Sebastian drops Grell hastily, unable to keep an expression of horror from his face. "_Husband?_" he asks, too shocked to suppress the tremor in his voice. "That was never mentioned last night!"

Grell grins up at him – a sickle-blade smile. Getting to his feet, the Reaper takes Sebastian's arm and looks up at him through fluttering eyelashes. "Well, Sebastian," Grell says, gesturing elegantly in the direction of the parterre with a narrow, white hand, "That's the kind of thing we're here to discuss, isn't it? Take me for a turn about the gardens, darling, and we can sort it all out. I want to kiss you in the rose garden and lose myself with you among the devious paths of the maze!"

"I'm afraid we don't have a maze," Sebastian replies, but he can't help smiling at Grell's eagerness.

"Hah! I thought the Phantomhive brat was a toymaker and a detective? How can he not have a maze - a game and a puzzle together? And, in any case, what fashionable pleasure garden is complete without one?" The way Grell wrinkles his (her?) nose is so reminiscent of a spoiled noblewoman that Sebastian wants to laugh. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, my lady," he replies. Grell tosses his long hair, and squeezes Sebastian's hand reassuringly. "Never mind, Bassy, my love. You're quite devious enough for me. Now – talk to me about this bargain. I understand what I'm giving up – but I'll sign nothing until I'm sure of what I'm getting in return. A lady has to be so careful these days… fortune hunters, and so forth…"

"To such mortal trash as fortune, I am completely indifferent," Sebastian replies. "In exchange for my services I require only one final payment, as you know."

They pause beside a trellis supporting a late-flowering white rose, its heavy blooms glowing in the moonlight. The scent is faint but gorgeous. Grell smiles and murmurs, "Heavenly!" and his expression is full of knowing irony. He turns to face Sebastian, and quite suddenly becomes serious. "You will devour my soul," Grell says, looking into Sebastian's eyes, and for the first time Sebastian realises that Grell is not selling himself so cheaply after all. Reapers know better than anyone the value of a soul. Grell is more desperate than Sebastian ever guessed – he desires this bargain more than any one Sebastian has become contracted to before – more even than Ciel Phantomhive wants revenge.

"I will devour your soul," Sebastian replies. "So what is it I must do in return?"

"You must love me. You must become my husband. You must make me a woman, and give me a child."

"Four impossible things," Sebastian says. "This is a contract I cannot fulfil."

Grell shakes his head, determined. "I don't believe they're impossible. You're a demon. There must be ways."

"As a demon, I cannot love. I could live with you in the manner of a husband, but I could never take you to church, for so many reasons that the idea is laughable! A man cannot become a woman or bear a child, however much he may wish it. You're wasting my time, Reaper."

"No. I believe these things must be possible – somehow – somewhere. I will offer you this contract: that you swear to try – that you devote your entire existence to making these things happen. If you do that, and you fail, my soul is yours – but only if you have given everything to the attempt. And while you are trying, you will behave, as you promised last night, as though you love me – as though you are my husband."

Sebastian shakes his head. "I _would _do all those things to win a Reaper's soul at last," he concedes. "But I am contracted to Earl Phantomhive. I cannot give your cause my all until that contract is completed. My time is not my own, at present."

Grell turns away, biting his lip. "I can't wait," he says. "Now I've made up my mind to it, it must be decided tonight. If we wait, _he'll_ find out about it, and he'll stop me. He knows me too well – he'll know something's wrong and he'll make me tell him."

"You're referring to Mr. Spears, I take it?" Sebastian asks.

"Of course. Don't be dense, Bassy. Look – all right – I'll compromise. Make the contract tonight, and all I'll ask is that you behave as though you love me, and meet me sometimes – say after ten each evening? The full terms will come into force the moment you take the brat's soul – and then you're contracted to me – and only me – until our agreement ends."

Sebastian smiles. "You drive a hard bargain, my lady. Ciel never thought to demand exclusivity. But I can't possibly see you every night. My schedule simply won't allow it. And there must be a term at the conclusion of which your soul is mine. Otherwise I'll be trapped attempting to achieve the impossible for all eternity."

"Yes, of course," Grell says, as though the point is too obvious to need making explicit. "I believe a hundred years is a sensible time-frame."

"The usual term is twenty-five years, or the fulfilment of all conditions."

"Ha!" Grell scoffs. "That's not a soul-contract – that's a mortgage! It may be all very well for mortals – but mine is no ordinary soul."

Sebastian pretends to consider, although he's actually gleeful. A hundred years may seem a long span to a Reaper who only became immortal a century or so ago, but to him it's nothing. "Very well," he agrees. "One hundred years. And until my contract with Ciel is ended, I will agree to meet you once a week –"

"_Three_ times a week," Grell corrects him. "I'll be pining for you far too much if it's only once a week!"

Sebastian sighs. "Twice," he says. "That's the best I can do. And you'll have to be flexible about which nights I see you, depending on what Ciel needs me to do. His orders will always take precedence until my contract with him is concluded."

Grell closes his eyes and a shudder goes through him that leaves Sebastian oddly short of breath. "I agree," Grell says, opening his eyes.

In the pale moonlight something shimmers. Grell gasps as long ribbons of faintly glowing words twine about him, strangely reminiscent of the cinematic records of departing souls, but with no tangible substance. Without reading the words he knows what they say – the terms of the contact, clear in his mind. There can be no possibility of misunderstanding on either side – no accusations of trick wording or ambiguity. The contract is a part of him now, as it is a part of Sebastian. Grell trembles at what he has done, but he has no regrets. This is his only chance to be all he knows he is and wants to be – a woman, a wife, a mother. If any one of those things comes to pass, he will consider his soul a price worth paying.

Sebastian plucks a white rose from the trellis and gives it to Grell, who holds it tight against his chest. A thorn pricks through the thin material of his shirt, and at once the rose changes, turning completely red. Sebastian undoes Grell's shirt buttons with a butler's practised dexterity, and Grell sees the sign of the contract written in his own flesh, over his heart. He reaches for Sebastian, who doesn't – who can no longer – deny him.

"Do you love me?" Grell whispers, as Sebastian lays him down on the soft grass between beds of roses.

"You know that I must tell you that I do," Sebastian replies.

"Tell me, then," Grell sighs.

Sebastian kisses him, and Grell thinks he'll faint with pleasure.

"I love you," Sebastian says, lying, as he is now contractually obliged to do.


	3. Bruises and Thorns

**Thank you very much readers and reviewers. All comments are very much appreciated. **

**Now the contract has been signed, Grell goes on her first 'date' with Sebastian.**

* * *

><p><strong>An Inexpensive Soul Chapter Three<strong>

**Bruises and Thorns**

Sebastian surveys the room carefully, making sure that everything is perfect. To be honest, he prefers working this way – alone. The servants at the Phantomhive Manor cause more trouble than they're worth on a day-to-day basis, although, Sebastian has to admit, their serving skills are not why he hired them.

The Phantomhive town house is exactly right for Sebastian's present requirements. Ciel will not visit it until Christmas in all probability, and it does make an elegant location for a romantic assignation. Sebastian smiles at his own thoughts – tonight's appointment will be more of an assignment than an assignation really, and he approaches the task with the same diligence he applies to his role as Ciel Phantomhive's butler, using his, admittedly limited, knowledge of Grell's character to design an ideal setting. Sebastian arranges vases of expensive red silk roses: one for the mantelpiece; one to go on the dinner table once it's set; one for the bedroom. Real blooms would be preferable, but at this time of year their quality is dubious, and he wants everything to look perfect.

Rather to his surprise, Sebastian finds that, now the contract is signed and sealed, the thought of making love to the besotted Reaper no longer repels him as it once did. In his past encounters with Grell, Sebastian considered him a foolish, frivolous being, but two nights ago, during the making of the contract, his view altered somewhat. Grell is giving up his immortal soul for a tiny chance of something almost certainly impossible, and while that _sounds_ foolish, there's a certain ambition to it – a _reach_ - that Sebastian can't help but grudgingly admire. After all, Hell is the kingdom of the greatest over-reacher of them all, and who should appreciate that trait more than a demon? He can't deny that something about Grell's determined desire to attain his impossible goal, desperate as it is, chimes with his own relentless hunger. Perhaps it's a necessary condition of damnation? Perhaps that's the worst of Hell: eternal restlessness – everlasting dissatisfaction.

Well – at least that's a motivating force, and better than the stagnation of complacency. Why _should_ Grell accept his lot? Whatever force or fate placed him in a male body and decreed he should never be _she_ played a cruel joke that has a bitter familiarity to Sebastian. He thinks of a tree in a garden – a prohibition that was surely a temptation in itself, before his kind ever got involved. Shaking his head, along with the spotless white tablecloth, Sebastian decides to leave such musings for another time. What is a demon doing, questioning the motives for his victim's submission to temptation?

Smoothing the tablecloth, Sebastian sets out silverware and crystal, placing the vase of roses at the centre. He has prepared a meal that he believes Grell will enjoy - a light consommé followed by confit of duck and, for dessert, the crème brulee that even Ciel Phantomhive, at his most irritable and hard to please, has never been able to resist. The Fitou is decanted: the champagne on ice, brought from the icehouse at the manor. Nothing remains for Sebastian to do but to change into his dinner jacket, fasten his bowtie and await his guest.

Reminding himself to address Grell as a lady at all times, Sebastian finds himself humming almost cheerfully as he reties his bowtie to his own exacting standards. It's impossible, of course, for a demon to experience true contentment, but knowing that he has completed a task to perfection always brings Sebastian a feeling that he thinks must be close to what humans perceive as pleasure.

The jangle of the doorbell surprises Sebastian, who half expected Grell to materialise in the room beside him. Clearly the Reaper has decided to play this situation as though it were real. Sebastian wonders whether he'll have come in his male or female guise – whether _she_ will have come, he corrects himself, opening the door.

Grell stands on the doorstep, smiling demurely. _She_ – no question of that – is beautifully dressed, in a sage green taffeta dinner gown with red velvet trim. Her hair is swept up, with only a few long ringlets left free to fall loosely about her face, and she wears no jewellery but a simple pearl choker. It's all much more tasteful and less extravagant than Sebastian was expecting – and a lot less red. The fabrics and colours suit the season, and it somehow pleases Sebastian that Grell is capable of more finesse than he would have expected.

Bowing politely, Sebastian takes Grell's hand and kisses it. "My Lady. Please, come in." It irritates the perfectionist in Sebastian that he has to play the roles of both servant and host, but, since he is borrowing Ciel's townhouse without permission, he can't afford witnesses.

"Thank you, Sebastian," Grell replies, and the way she walks into the house – the aristocratic turn of her head – makes the demon wonder whether she was born into a noble family in her mortal life. He opens the door to the dining room and she stops in the doorway, her green eyes widening as she takes in the soft candlelight, the roses, the immaculately laid table.

"I've taken the liberty of preparing dinner," Sebastian says. "I hope it's to your liking."

For a moment Grell appears lost for words, but then she smiles and replies, "Thank you. This is - beautiful. It's not – that is, I wasn't expecting –"

"Perhaps we can discuss what you do expect from these meetings over dinner," Sebastian says, pulling out the mahogany Chippendale chair so that she can sit down. As Grell arranges her dress with practised grace, Sebastian pours wine and, when she is ready, hands her a glass, raising his own in a toast. "To beginnings," he says.

Grell smiles at him then, and for a moment she looks more like the version of Grell he's familiar with. "To beginnings," she echoes, "And to the future, Sebby, darling."

Dinner, Sebastian thinks, goes well. Grell is most complimentary about the food, and the conversation – a little stilted at first – begins to flow with the wine. Leaving romantic intentions aside, Grell is a fascinating dinner guest. They talk about her job, and some of her accounts of incidents during soul collections have Sebastian laughing aloud without having to feign his amusement. Any observer might blanche at the things they find funny, and would certainly consider Grell's sense of humour macabre in the extreme for the well-bred lady she appears to be, but Sebastian is quickly discovering that there are many similarities in the things Reapers and Demons find laughable in humans. Although he had no intention of doing so at the start of the evening, he finds himself telling stories of his own – things it's possibly not wise to reveal to a Reaper. But Grell is no ordinary Reaper, Sebastian concludes, and he finds that he rather enjoys making her laugh. Her company is certainly more bearable than that of his sullen master, who is tucked up in bed back at the manor, never dreaming that his butler is busy with another contract in the meantime.

Grell finishes her second glass of champagne, and smiles her sharp smile at Sebastian. "That was the most delicious meal I've ever eaten, Bassy," she says, regarding him in a way that would normally have him attacking or running. "I admit it – you're twice the butler I ever was. All this…" She takes one of the silk roses from the vase, and examines it thoughtfully. "I'm really terribly impressed, my love. I think you'll make a wonderful husband – and father. Tell me, would you prefer a boy or a girl? I've been thinking of names – I'd like something Shakespearian. A little Ophelia or Juliette? Mariana, perhaps? Ferdinand, for a boy – or even Sebastian, of course. Oh – we could have twins – Viola and Sebastian! That would be perfect! She would grow up to be a great actress and he – well, what would _you_ like him to be?"

Sebastian resists the urge to tell Grell she's being ridiculous. He's under contract now, and so he only smiles and replies, "I'm not sure. I suppose you're right – the son of a demon and a Reaper could become anything he liked. If only it were possible."

"A hundred years is a long time," says Grell, with a wistful smile. "You'll find a way. I have fa–"

_What? _ Sebastian thinks, almost laughing. _Grell has _faith _in a demon? _But Grell looks at him as though she can read his thoughts and finishes, "I have _hope_, at least."

"Hope?" Sebastian asks, although he probably shouldn't. "Hope is a demon's greatest weapon. It's pure soul-bait."

Grell stands abruptly, and the look she gives him is complex. She tosses her head, half angry, half careless, and says, "Well, demon, I may have taken the bait, but you haven't reeled me in yet." She rounds the table, grabs him by the lapels of his perfectly pressed dinner jacket and kisses him hard. He pulls back a little, determined to keep the evening on course, but there's the taste of sin on her lips and it excites him more than it should. He holds her close, and winds one crimson ringlet around his finger as he says, "You're very beautiful, Grell."

"Why, thank you, kind Sir," Grell smiles, not releasing her grip on his jacket. "So are you. We'll have such _gorgeous_ babies together! Take me to bed, demon."

Sebastian has a contract to fulfil, and orders must be obeyed, but, as he sweeps Grell up into his arms and carries her towards the stairs, he finds that, after all, he has very little objection to obeying.

x

It's almost dawn when Sebastian leans across the bed to wake Grell with a kiss, as a good lover would. The Reaper opens her eyes and looks at him, disorientated for a moment, then gives him a contented smile. "Sebby," Grell says, resting her head on his shoulder. She looks up at him from beneath those long artificial eyelashes, and says, "I suppose you've been awake all night?"

"Yes," Sebastian replies. "Demons don't need to sleep."

"What did you do all that time?"

"Just – thought about things."

Grell leans up on one elbow, looking down at Sebastian. "What kinds of things?"

"Nothing in particular. What I have to do today. Menus. The servants' schedules."

Grell laughs softly. "When I saw your record that time – that was really it, wasn't it? Your present existence really is that boring!"

Sebastian smiles. "It's been a little more interesting since I encountered you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Grell says. "Oh dear – I suppose it's time to go. William will be suspicious if I'm late for work, and I have to go home and change…" She stretches and gets out of bed, and it's almost a shock to Sebastian to register the maleness of her slender, naked body.

Grell collects her clothes from the floor and puts them on quickly. Sebastian does the same. When they're both dressed, Grell smiles. "Thank you, Sebastian! That was perfect in almost every detail!"

"In what particular did I disappoint?" Sebastian asks, genuinely disconcerted. "If you don't mind me asking – for future reference."

Grell takes one of the scarlet blooms from the vase on the nightstand beside the bed and presses it into Sebastian's hand. "Silk roses," she says.

"But – it's November," Sebastian replies. "The only available roses are small, and their petals are usually bruised by the weather. Besides," he smiles, "silk roses last, and they have no thorns."

Grell stands on tiptoe and puts her arms around Sebastian's neck. She kisses him gently, all traces of last night's lust gone, and when she draws away her eyes are full of a melancholy laughter. "Bruises and thorns," she says quietly, "are what proves they're _real_."

Grell turns to go, but pauses with her hand on the door handle. "Goodbye, Sebas-chan," she says, with a little wave. "I'll see you again, soon."

"I am – at your command," replies Sebastian, with a bow, but this, too, fails to please his new mistress.

"Not yet," says Grell. "Not while Ciel Phantomhive lives. But you will be." And with that, the Reaper is gone.

Sebastian smiles. It's been a very long time since he found a client a challenge. _So, Grell_, he thinks, _you're a perfectionist too._ He finds that his hunger for the Reaper's soul is stronger than it has ever been.

x

When he returns from an unremarkable morning's reaping, Grell is surprised to find a secretary waiting for him. "These arrived, addressed to you, and Mr. Spears told me to bring them to you," the girl says, presenting Grell with a huge bouquet of red roses. "He said there was no message."

Grell looks at the roses. They aren't perfect blooms, but they are vibrant with life, and their thorns are very sharp.


	4. Oh What Can Ail Thee?

**Thank you very much to everyone who has read, reviewed and favourited this story. **

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><p><strong>"An Inexpensive Soul" Chapter Four –<strong>

**Oh What Can Ail Thee?**

"Reaper Sutcliff?"

Grell opens his eyes, and finds himself staring blearily at the back of a leather sofa in the break-room of the Shinigami Despatch Division office. His dream – something pleasant involving Sebas-chan, an old-fashioned death scythe and a battle in a rose garden – vanishes from his mind as William T. Spears shakes him roughly by the shoulder.

The temptation to keep still and pretend to be asleep is strong, but William isn't going to be fooled by that, so Grell rolls over and peeks up at his supervisor, one arm thrown over his eyes as protection. He knows William, and so he knows that falling asleep at work is likely to result in a painful prod from the supervisor's prissy but hideously sharp death scythe.

"Did it happen again?" Grell asks, aiming for a look of innocent incomprehension. William ignores the question and its implication that Grell has no idea why he keeps falling asleep in the daytime, and says instead, "Whatever it is that's keeping you up on your nights off, you'd better drop it. So far you've managed to complete assignments and reports – just barely – but I won't have you lolling all over the office like this, making the place look untidy. Go home – get some sleep – and be here – _properly here_ – tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp."

Grell's expression is one of pure outrage. "William! I do not _loll_!" He sits up, crossing his legs gracefully, and tosses his head. "I don't have the figure of a loller, thank you very much. If anything I _drape_." He gets to his feet in one fluid movement, and, to prove the point, arranges one arm languorously around William's narrow – and very stiff – shoulders, turning him to face the window, where their reflections are just visible. "There, you see, William, darling?" Grell smiles. "Aren't I the _perfect _accessory for you? Why don't you take me out to dinner, to thank me?"

William doesn't deign to reply, removing Grell's arm from around his neck with a look of faint disgust as though he's brushing crumbs from his lapel.

Grell watches William walking towards the door and breathes out quietly, thinking his absurd behaviour has been enough of a distraction. William pauses though, half way across the room, and looks back at Grell, frowning. "Oh, by the way," he says casually, as though the thought has just occurred to him, "who sent you those roses the other day?"

Grell almost panics, but, knowing William as well as he does, turns nervous energy into an attack. "Why do you want to know?" he asks. "_Jealous_, my love? If you don't like me receiving tokens of affection from other men, perhaps you should start sending me some of your own. You know I'd be appreciative."

"Your kind of appreciation I can do without," William counters. He turns to go, and his hand is on the doorknob when he adds, "This had better not have anything to do with that _demon_."

"Sebas-chan?" Grell asks, hoping his airy tone is convincing. "Oh – I wish it did! Can you imagine Sebastian sending _me_ roses! I'd just _die_ of happiness!"

"Hm," is William's only response, as he leaves the room.

That last point of Grell's is the only reassuring one William thinks, as he walks briskly along the corridor. The demon is certainly unlikely to send Grell flowers under any circumstances that he can imagine. But something is making Grell tired, and someone sent him the roses. Not that it's any of William's business what Grell chooses to do in his spare time – in fact, he'd much rather not know. It only becomes his concern when work is affected. Grell's antics have caused William countless hours of frustration and overtime in the past, and unless his performance improves drastically over the next few days, William is determined to intervene before the irritating Reaper's lack of sleep leads him to make some hideous mistake – reaping the wrong soul, say, or mislaying the cinematic records. William tells himself that his concerns are purely professional. He doesn't care if Grell gets _himself_ into trouble. If he ends up attacked by an out-of-control record, or up in front of the disciplinary board for reaping someone whose time hasn't come, perhaps he'll finally begin to learn the importance of concentration. But somehow Grell always seems to drag others into his catastrophes – and if he makes a mess, William knows that he's the one who will have to clear it up.

_I'm keeping my eye on you, Grell,_ William thinks. _And this really had better not have anything to do with that damned demon!_

Alone in the break room, Grell looks at his own reflection in the windows and frowns, thinking of Will and Sebastian. Grell knows that William is right; he ought to go home and sleep. But it's been three days since he last saw Sebastian, and he has no intention of missing tonight's appointment. The roses were proof that the demon is keeping to his contract, and that is the only point of concern to Grell. As long as Sebastian is fulfilling his promise to try his hardest to meet Grell's terms, then the Reaper believes there is a chance of success - the chance for which he has gambled his soul.

x

Tonight Grell is determined to enjoy herself. She puts all thoughts of William out of her mind, and arrives at Sebastian's door – which is, of course, Ciel Phantomhive's door – only fifteen minutes late. This evening's outfit has taken some considerable time to assemble, after all. As if in defiance of William's cold sobriety, Grell has decided to abandon the understated elegance of the dresses she has chosen for her previous encounters with her incubus in favour of something a little more flamboyant.

When Sebastian opens the door Grell sweeps past him into the entrance hall, and tonight she wears nothing but red. Her sleeveless evening gown is rich crimson silk, bustled at the back, fold upon fold like the furled petals of half-open roses, the most vibrant, glistening red thrown into sharp relief by blue-black shadows, dark as the heart of a demon's promise. A corsage of living red roses is pinned to Grell's bodice, her long velvet gloves are red, and at her throat rubies flash their bloody fire. Her luxuriant hair is shockingly untamed, free from all adornment; needing none. Its colour is deeper than the silk or the soft petals of the roses – the colour of temptation, Sebastian thinks. Lilith's hair, or the Magdalene's – a web to catch the eye and the soul with it - as cunning as any trap he has ever set. If Grell takes to the streets with her hair like this, she will set London ablaze. Mortals will stare and call her Jezabel, dressed in the colour of the Whore of Babylon. She will be irresistible.

Sebastian smiles without the usual weary cynicism he feels in the presence of his victims, but with the genuine enthusiasm of a co-conspirator. It's been a very long time since he almost regretted a contract. This creature – amoral, beautiful, immortal seductress that she is tonight – would be a more worthy partner in crime than he's known for centuries. Her soul will be worth any inconvenience or difficulty.

"You look ravishing!" Sebastian says, and means it in every sense.

"Thank you, my darling," Grell purrs, narrowing her eyes almost sleepily. Then they flash open, vivid green, as she seizes his hand and cries, "I want to go out! Take me to the theatre."

"And what would you like to see, my lady?" Sebastian asks, mentally listing all of the plays he knows are showing in London tonight.

Grell smiles. "A tragedy, of course," she says, her inhuman eyes alight. "There must be love, and thwarted love, and fate, and death!"

"There always is," Sebastian replies. "That summarises the pitiful destiny of mortals."

"And you and I can laugh at it," Grell says, although the brightness in her eyes dims somewhat at the thought. "We, who have no fear of death."

Sebastian hesitates before he says, "If I fulfil the contract, you must die."

"Yes. And I have no fear of it," Grell replies.

The demon looks into the Reaper's unearthly eyes, and thinks that for tonight, at least, Grell believes it to be true.

x

Grell leans on the rail of the box, opera glasses in her red-gloved hand, her eyes on Juliet. Sebastian notices that half the men in the stalls are casting longing glances upwards, not at the pretty dark-eyed actress on the balcony, but at the red-haired vision by his side. If he were merely the stylishly dressed young blade he appears to be, he would be basking now in the envy he senses. The ladies' expressions are also filled with emotion when they look at Grell, but, for the most part, emotion of a very different flavour.

Grell is alive to the weight of their gazes and affects perfect indifference, but her gestures draw their eyes. When Romeo exclaims, "See how she leans her hand upon her cheek!" Grell lays her hand against her cheek so artlessly and with such winning grace that at "Aye, me, she speaks! Speak again, bright angel!" more than one spellbound youth starts and drags his guilty eyes back to the stage when it's Juliet who responds and not Grell. But as the play takes its familiar course, Grell's coquetry ceases and her affected artlessness becomes the real thing as she begins to lose herself in the unfolding story. Even the handsome actor playing Tybalt and the almost indecently tight fit of Mercutio's hose cannot distract her tonight, and as the curtain falls at the end of the third act the tears in her eyes are no affectation at all.

Sebastian is surprised, therefore, when she turns to him with a sudden, sharp smile and says, "Let's go, darling. I've had enough."

Sebastian is happy enough to leave – he's seen this play performed a hundred times, and a hundred times better, since the opening night nearly three centuries ago, shortly after that intriguing encounter with one of the few souls he failed to tempt into a contract – a young man with burning eyes named Kit, who declined his offer but wrote him into a play. _Ah, Mephistopheles_!

Briefly Sebastian wonders whether it will occur to Grell to change his name once the contract with Ciel has come to term, or whether the Reaper will continue to think of him as Sebas-chan. It hardly matters. He's been called by a thousand different names, and not one of them has ever had the power to conjure the gift of even an extra heartbeat of existence out of him beyond the term of a contract. For now, though, he is Sebastian and perfectly considerate of his client's wishes, so he turns to Grell with a smile and asks, "Are you certain you want to leave now? Before the end?"

"Oh yes," sighs Grell, tossing back her spectacular hair, replacing the opera glasses in her reticule and smoothing down her silk skirts. "The tragedy has happened. Mercutio and Tybalt are dead – Romeo is Fortune's Fool. What more is there to say?" This time her smile reveals the points of her teeth and she's suddenly all Reaper. "I'm so _weary_ of suicides and sepulchres! The leap – the risk – _Wherefore art thou Romeo?_ - and to love him anyway! That's all that matters!" Grell's expression softens. She takes off one glove and touches Sebastian's cheek. He turns his head to kiss her naked fingers. Let the folk still watching from the stalls cover their titillation with feigned outrage – the demon knows the nature of their true desires.

"A demon and a Reaper," Grell says. "Such folly…" She lowers her eyes, and when she looks up at him again the melancholy has been replaced by dark laughter. Sebastian wonders why he finds her mercurial moods exhilarating now, when, before the contract, they only irritated him.

As they walk out onto a rain-washed, gas-lit street, Grell smiles. "'Fiend angelical'," she quotes. "Do you ever wish you'd been an angel instead?"

"I was an angel," Sebastian replies. His voice is expressionless, but his eyes, he knows, burn red.

"Oh, forgive me – I was forgetting," Grell lies, with a little laugh. "But I have no love for angels. _Your_ agenda I understand."

"Unlike the angels, I make no secret of it," Sebastian replies. "Where would you like to go next, my lady?"

"Home," says Grell. "The townhouse, I mean. Take me back home – over the rooftops, like the first time we fought. Remember?"

"I remember," replies Sebastian, seizing her hand. Too quick for mortal vision, they're above London, running from roof to roof in the cool damp city night. Grell pirouettes precariously on a crooked ridge tile as the rain comes down in earnest. "It was _Romeo and Juliet_ that night, too," she laughs. "You were magnificent – so much passion – so much blood! I lost the fight, and my heart!"

Sebastian's smile is as sharp and precise as William's death scythe as he says, "And you almost lost your life. But, on reflection, I'm not sorry that I was thwarted by your cold superior Mr. Spears."

Grell finds herself concealing a snarl at that. Yes, Will is cold, but hearing his name in the mouth of a _demon_ prompts unexpected resentment. The insult angers her enough that she almost retaliates, but she bites back the automatic retort and swallows the bitter emotion that comes with the desire to make it. "Reaper Spears," she says coldly, "has no more power over either of us." She turns a too-sweet smile on Sebastian as she adds, "Providing that the contract is watertight."

Sebastian sweeps her off her feet and into his arms, and kisses her cool, wet lips. In her hair, raindrops sparkle. "I have never lost a soul yet," the demon murmurs, setting her down before Ciel Phantomhive's front door. He puts a hand over her heart, and she feels a faint pain as the seal on her skin radiates heat like sunburn.

"There's always a first time," Grell replies, returning his kiss. "You have promises to keep. Do you love me yet?" Before he can reply, she shakes her head. "Never mind. 'I know thou wilt say _Aye_'."

"Then why ask, lady?"

"To hear you lie again. You do it well – I'll give you that."

"I love you."

"Liar."

"I want you."

"That's nearer to the truth, anyway."

As they enter the hallway all the lamps light and the candles in the chandelier burn with a supernatural green flame. "It must be a nice change for you," Grell observes, as Sebastian starts to unlace her dress, "not even to have to pretend to be human."

"It saves time," Sebastian agrees, as Grell's dress ignites and falls from her body in sheets of fire that leave her unscathed and beautiful, clad in nothing but rubies and all her luxuriant flame-coloured hair.

"My demon lover!" Grell exclaims. "But I'm no bewitched mortal. You don't have to lie to me. Tell me the truth – tell me what you really want."

"I want you," Sebastian says again, his fingers in her hair, and against her throat, his mouth almost on hers.

"You want to devour me," Grell whispers.

"Yes."

"You want to consume my soul. Everything I am."

"Yes."

"Then love me," Grell sighs, closing her eyes, leaning back against the wall as Sebastian presses against her and kisses her with an utterly convincing semblance of passion. Grell opens her eyes though, and pulls away from him. His human form is so beautiful that it's easy to forget the truth of what he is. He looks into her eyes and sees something of what she's thinking. The demon's eyes glow red and Grell shudders at the glimpse of those infernal fires beyond the veil. It takes all her courage not to run from him, but she signed the contract knowing what it meant, and she is resolute.

"Tell me the truth," Grell insists.

"I can't love you. I will never love you. It's impossible."

"You're contacted to try."

"A demon is the opposite of love."

"Hate?"

"No. Hate would be something - some feeling. I am – unlove. A void."

"A void that you seek to fill by consuming souls?"

"Yes."

"And yet you made the contract, and you have to try."

For the first time ever in the matter of a contract, the demon hesitates. "I don't know what that means," he admits at last.

"So our contract is meaningless?"

"No. I _will_ try. I will try to fulfil your other conditions – a marriage – a way to make you a woman – a way to give you a child. And I will think about how a demon can try to love."

"You want my soul very badly," Grell says.

"More than any other," Sebastian confesses.

"That's a start," Grell says, with a fragile smile. Then she takes Sebastian's hand and leads him to the bedroom. "You have no soul, and I have the wrong body," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck and reaching up to kiss him. "But we both exist in these forms, here, now. Make love to me, even if you can't feel it."

"Don't waste your time pitying me," Sebastian says. "Others have claimed to do that, and their souls tasted no different from those who hated me, or ran mad with fear."

"I don't pity you," Grell replies, surprised. "You're my only chance, that's all."

"You are extraordinary," Sebastian says, sincerely.

"Find a germ of love in that, then," Grell tells him, arranging herself on the bed, her hair spread over the pillows, glowing molten red in the candlelight. She is ravishing, and Sebastian ravishes her, according to her wishes, and finds himself wondering what love would feel like if it were possible for him to feel it.

On the street opposite Ciel Phantomhive's townhouse, William T. Spears stands beneath a black umbrella listening to the rhythm of the rain on its drum-taut fabric. Grell entered the house with the demon at nine thirty-two; William checked his pocket watch just before he was forced to endure the sight of Grell, in that absurd gown, kissing the demon on the doorstep. William has already counted the chimes of midnight from a dozen different churches, but he waits another hour to be certain that Grell really isn't planning to leave until the morning. What could Grell have said or done to make the demon known as Sebastian Michaelis behave according to the Reaper's wishes? There's only one thing a demon truly desires – William knows that well enough – but even Grell would never do something as foolish as to make a bargain with the devil! What could a demon promise that could tempt a Reaper? And what kind of deal could a Reaper make with a demon? No. Not even Grell would attempt to enter into a contract of that kind, surely? Impossible.

It _ought_ to be impossible. But what other answer could there be?

As he turns away, William experiences a strange sinking shock cold in his stomach, and tells himself it's because Grell is about to make him a mountain of extra work again. _Grell_, he thinks, pondering his infuriating subordinate's previous misdemeanours. _Oh Grell! What have you done this time? What the devil have you done? _


	5. Distracted

**I'm sorry it's taken so long to update this story - I really do have too many stories on the go. A huge thank you for all the faves and reviews; I really appreciate them. I try to reply to every review but I've been a bit behind on this lately. If I've missed replying to you I apologise, and thank you for the feedback. **

**I change Grell's pronouns depending on his/her mood and how he/she is choosing to present him/herself to others. I hope that's not too distracting. **

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><p><strong>An Inexpensive Soul Chapter Five<strong>

**Distracted**

The next evening, at work, Grell almost makes the mistake William has been anticipating. The case is complicated by the fact that the soul to be reaped is one of a pair of identical twin sisters – trapeze artists in Montoni's Circus. Tonight, one twin is doomed to fail to catch the other.

Grell stands high on the ladder, holding on with one hand, careless. If he falls he will land, unscathed. For at least another hundred years, he is safe from all mortal accidents. Nothing from this world can harm him, and even in his own realm there are very few things with that power: a death scythe; an angry angel; a wayward record; the thorns of death.

A contract with a demon…

But now is not the time for such thoughts. Grell has work to do, and if he wants to keep William off his back and free from suspicion, he knows he had better improve his focus. So – the To Die list. One of these two girls.

The sisters are beautiful; bird-light, lithe and strong, their bright hair – cropped scandalously short – a downy fluff beneath their close-fitting, sequinned caps. They wear identical golden leotards embellished with yellow feathers. The brilliance of the limelights and the scattered glitter of so many sequins make it hard for Grell to focus on the little details that enable him to tell which twin is which. Their mother named them Louisa and Constance, but they transform themselves into Linnet and Canary when they fly, and those are the names on the posters pasted up all around town – third billing, and going up – only outdone by Leno the clown, and Mr. Montoni with his performing tiger, Sher. The cat trumps the birds, for now – but these two are ascending as though those little feathery wings sewn onto the backs of their costumes could actually bestow the power of flight; Sher is old and his teeth are not as sharp as they were. The twins' time will come…

Their time _has_ come, and Grell can't help but regret it as he watches them swoop and soar through empty space. He is tired from his time spent with Sebastian last night, and yet there is still sometimes enough romance in these brief, mortal lives to engage him. Why shouldn't an act as good as this one count as a reason to postpone death? Why should such an honour be reserved for those gifted in certain, specific fields? Is the soul of a great scientist worth more, intrinsically, than that of a great aerialist? These girls bring joy whenever they fly. Better, they bring wonder – the space of a heartbeat or an in-drawn breath in which to believe in the impossible. Look at Linnet now – poised there in the air – feathers fluttering – arms outstretched - sure, as always, that her hands will grasp her sister's hands - Why should she die? And after today, even when her body has recovered, Canary will never fly again, caged by guilt.

Grell's attention is caught suddenly by a family far below in the crowd – the mother, beautiful, holding her astonished toddler on her knee, her handsome, dark-haired husband by her side – all of them gazing up at the twins in mid-flight – rapt. Grell's vision of the impossible – a wife – a mother –

Linnet screams and falls. Canary reaches too far, too late, and tumbles after her sister, abrupt as a flying game bird stopped by a barrage of shot. Grell leaps to the ground, scythe at the ready, his boots slipping in bloody sawdust – but in this tangle of broken limbs and sequins and feathers – these two cinematic records, one to be collected and one restored to its injured body – which is which?

Grell experiences a moment of real dismay as he realises that failure means either that both twins will die, or that one may end up with the other's record – an unprecedented situation that would surely lead to madness, if not death. But Grell achieved triple A's in practical reaping technique for a reason, whatever William may think. Seizing both records in his gloved hands, Grell gasps as they twist, their edges sharp as the pain Canary feels. Grell's gloves are cut through by the records, his hands are bleeding, but he forces the corporeal, writhing ribbons of memory together and compares the last frames. Ah – here's Linnet – her hands clutching at air – her last sight the dawning horror on her twin's face.

With his scythe, Grell reaps Linnet's soul, allowing Canary's record to return to her body. Canary is sobbing her sister's name between wheezing breaths, but Linnet's body is still. Members of the circus gather swiftly. The audience sits, silent but for the crying of a few children. Grell's last image of the scene, before he returns instantly to the offices of the Shinigami Despatch Division, is of the mother whose happy family group distracted him – her pretty face ashen, her hand over the eyes of her wailing child.

x

Grell's plan to dispose of the ruined gloves and allow his bleeding hands to heal before anyone can notice his injuries is thwarted upon his return, when he has the misfortune to materialise in the staff room directly in front of his supervisor. Shocked, he drops the scythe, which clatters to the floor, splashing the white tiles with crimson drops. Surreptitiously Grell wipes both gloved hands down the sides of his coat, hoping that William won't notice a little more red. William only raises his eyebrows. "Difficult reaping?"

"No – no. Only a rather recalcitrant record. You know how they can get."

"I've rarely seen you injured by one, though. What happened?"

"A spirited soul. I dealt with it. She was a trapeze artist – her soul wanted to fly."

William frowns. "The record escaped your scythe. You were distracted."

"By the lights – the sequins –"

"No. Quite the opposite. You were distracted by darkness. Grell, what is the nature of your arrangement with that demon presently calling itself Sebastian Michaelis?"

"This has nothing to do with any demon!"

William takes Grell's bloody hands in his own, and gently, one at a time, removes the slashed gloves, letting them drop to the floor. Both of Grell's palms are lined by scarlet gashes, but already they're beginning to heal.

"You're lucky it wasn't worse," William says.

Grell smiles slightly. "You almost sound as though you care."

"Was it the demon who sent you the roses?"

"Oh Will! Are you jealous, after all?"

William sighs. "Grell, you don't have to tell me what's going on if you don't want to. Just – be careful. I know you think work is my only concern, but we have been colleagues for a hundred years now, and I don't want to see you putting yourself in danger."

Grell looks up at him, startled. William never speaks like this. "Will, darling!" he says, affecting a coquettish head-tilt, "I never knew you felt this way!"

"No?" William moves closer, still holding both Grell's hands. "Perhaps I don't often give that impression. But Grell, you must know that I care what happens to you."

Grell is too astonished to manage anything more profound than, "Do you?"

"You are the most infuriating Reaper I have ever supervised," William says, suddenly very close indeed. "But you are also the most intriguing."

Grell is mesmerised. This can't be happening.

"William?" Grell whispers, as the supervisor who once dragged him all the way home by his hair lays a cool hand on his cheek and kisses him. Grell melts into Will's arms, utterly resistless.

William's hands are in Grell's hair, gentle this time, mouth against his throat as he unfastens the buttons of Grell's shirt, pushes the material away –

And Grell finds himself shoved back, William's hands gripping his upper arms painfully.

All dazed, confused passion, Grell doesn't at first understand what's happening.

"Will?"

William's expression is frozen horror for an instant, changing immediately into something like grief, before hardening into contempt. "I knew it," he says, his voice flat and cold as he stares at the seal of the contract over Grell's heart.

"But - you – a –all that was only to discover the seal?" Grell stammers.

"Of course! Grell – how _could_ you?"

"How could _I_?" Grell counters, furious, breathless with pain. "You _used_ my attraction to you, when you know how I feel!"

"_Feel?"_ William scoffs. "_You_ _feel_? You feel the same about any remotely attractive man who crosses your path. You feel the same about a _demon_! You've sold your soul – for what? Lust? You allow a filthy creature like that to defile you and you give it your soul for the privilege? This is lower than I ever dreamed even you would fall. Grell – your _soul_? For nothing more than the outward body of a demon?"

It takes Grell a moment to work out what William is talking about, and then he laughs shortly.

"Sex?" Grell asks, incredulous. "You think I traded my soul for _sex_?"

"I've seen you lose your head so many times," William says, and Grell is surprised at how bitter he sounds. "You flirt and preen and chase after any man who catches your eye. What else am I supposed to think? You give your heart so cheaply!"

"My heart! You think I'm in love with a demon?"

Will's expression is hard as he replies, "How should I know? It's apparent that I know nothing about you after all."

"Will – you're wrong." Grell's eyes sparkle with tears, but Will turns away, disgusted.

"No hysterics," he says. "Please. It's too late for that."

"I'm not hysterical," Grell says, taking off his glasses to wipe away the tears angrily, "I'm only – more alone than I thought. But I won't apologize. I made this contract willingly, knowing what it meant. I desired it. I won't regret it, no matter what happens."

"What are the terms?" Will asks.

"My business," Grell tells him. "But you don't need to worry. You're right – I have been a little distracted, but I'll be more careful from now on. I won't let it affect my work. Since that's all that concerns you."

"Is it fixed? Is there no way out of it?"

Grell gives him a straight look. "It's a demonic soul contract, signed and sealed."

"How long do you have?"

"If Sebastian fulfils the terms, a hundred years."

"So little time! Not much more than the span of a mortal life… But I've never heard of a contract between a Reaper and a demon. There must be some way out of this!"

Grell smiles and shakes his head. "William. I know you don't think much of me, but, contrary to your beliefs, I do know what I'm doing. I don't need your sympathy, if you have any – and, although I'd rather you felt differently, I can live with your contempt." Grell puts his palm, healed already, against Will's cheek, just for a moment. "There is no way out," he says, "But it's all right – I don't want one."

"But –"

Grell lays one finger against Will's lips. "No. This contract is what I want." Grell turns away, retrieves his fallen scythe and walks off in the direction of the main office, and there's nothing William T. Spears can do but watch him go.

x

Grell is not due to see Sebastian tonight, but, although she knows she should sleep, the memory of the look on William's face when he saw the demonic seal over her heart makes rest impossible. How Will must despise her now! He thinks she has sold herself more cheaply than any whore.

_He believes that I gave up my soul for nothing more than lust! _Grell reflects, brushing her hair before the ornate mirror on her dressing table. _After all this time, he knows nothing about me at all. _

This realisation is a pain sharper than the cinematic records or the thorns of the roses Sebastian sent her. Grell turns her gaze to the flowers, blooming dark crimson in their crystal vase on the table beside the bed. Taking one long-stemmed rose, she touches her index finger to the top-most thorn, curved and sharp as a cat's claw, and presses until a single drop of blood blossoms there. Dropping the rose onto the red silk of her counterpane, Grell holds her finger to the candle light, admiring the colour and the liquid gleam of the bead of blood. She raises an eyebrow at herself in the mirror and smiles, wiping away the blood with her thumb. Histrionic, if not hysterical. She's a Reaper, not a witch – no need for dark rituals. The time for such things is long past, in any case. By rights, now that he is contracted to her, if she wishes to summon Sebastian she only has to call his name. Will he come? Or will his prior contract with Ciel Phantomhive prevent him from answering her summons?

Grell slips her hand under her shirt, and touches the seal, which burns hot suddenly. "Sebastian!" Grell says aloud. "Sebastian, come here."

Nothing happens, and Grell closes her eyes, not certain whether she's disappointed or relieved. Behind her, the demon says, "My lady?"

Grell turns to see Sebastian looking slightly irritated. In one hand he holds a delicate Limoges plate, pale blue and gold, scattered with pink flowers, on which stands a slice of pear and almond frangipane tart topped with a swirl of whipped cream.

Grell suppresses a laugh. Really, William has quite dampened her mood this evening, but seeing Sebastian so obviously trying to restrain his demon's temper is amusing enough to dispel some of the gloom. "I'm so sorry, Sebby darling," Grell smiles. "Did I call you away in the middle of taking that brat his supper?"

"Indeed. I really must insist that we stick to the terms of our agreement until my contract with Earl Phantomhive is fulfilled. We arranged to meet the day after tomorrow, I believe?"

"Yes," Grell nods, "so we did. But I have news. Don't worry; it won't take long. Ciel can wait." She steps forward lightly, deliberately feminine in her movements despite her male attire. Taking the plate from Sebastian she smiles up at him. "You don't mind if I eat this, do you? It looks delicious!"

Sebastian surrenders the plate. "Be my guest." The demon waits as Grell sits on the bed and picks up the tart carefully. "Excuse my manners," she says with a sideways glance at Sebastian, "but there doesn't seem to be a cake fork."

Sebastian's jaw tightens a fraction, but he only replies mildly, "It was on the tray. I was in the process of passing the plate to my master when you called."

"Oh dear – I do hope I haven't been an inconvenience," smiles Grell, in a tone that suggests quite the opposite. She takes a tiny bite of the tart, and closes her eyes, swallowing. "Divine!"

"Please," says Sebastian, frowning, but perhaps somewhat flirtatious, "any compliment but that!"

Grell's pointed teeth flash white in the candlelight. "Heavenly?"

Sebastian grimaces.

"No? Diabolically good, then, if you prefer."

"I do." Rather to Grell's surprise Sebastian sits on the bed beside her, and kisses her with every appearance of ardour. The demon is fulfilling his contract to the letter. Grell wonders who's the better liar – the demon, or William Spears. Impatient, she moves away from Sebastian. "William knows about the contract."

"Oh?" Sebastian's handsome face is the very image of insouciance. "Let him fret. There's nothing he can do about it now."

"I know that!"

"So why did you interrupt my duties to give me the news?"

"I'm not sure." Grell kisses Sebastian fiercely, then pushes him away. "Perhaps I was missing you." She shrugs, and turns her attention back to the dessert. "Don't let me keep you from your master."

Sebastian smiles. "I'd prefer to be with my mistress. But, alas, duty calls!"

The demon vanishes, and Grell tosses her hair, wondering what excuse for his sudden departure Sebastian will fabricate for the Phantomehive brat. Sebastian is such a convincing liar – but William is better. For a moment, when William kissed her, she almost believed…

No longer hungry, Grell throws away the rest of the tart, perfect though it is. Unable to settle to anything, she paces the room, picking up objects at random, knowing that attempting to sleep is pointless. Putting on Madame Red's coat, she goes to the door, glancing back at the room with its uselessly feminine trappings. Sebastian's rose, still lying on the bed, will die without water, but Grell leaves it there anyway and goes out into the night.

x

The library is quiet at this time. In the huge reading room all the desks are unoccupied but one. In a circle of bluish lamplight William Spears sits surrounded by books on demon lore, plays and poems concerning deals with the devil, accounts by Reapers of souls they have lost to these damned contracts. As far as he can determine, no human has ever been known to escape from such a contract, but the soul of a Reaper is immortal in quite a different way from the soul of a human subject, and William is determined that if any loophole exists that could save Grell from the demon, he will find it.


End file.
